


Twenty-seventh

by lasorcas



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, M/M, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-28 05:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasorcas/pseuds/lasorcas





	Twenty-seventh

He’s tipsy, not drunk; he feels the rhythm of the music sink in through his skin, his body following the flow inadvertently. His mind is clear yet there’s this familiar acid taste in his mouth from all the alcohol he’s had tonight. He looks around the club, like a predator seeking for his next prey. That’s why he came here in the first place. That’s why he comes here every Monday night.

He sips from his glass - the alcohol doesn’t even taste like anything anymore, he can only taste the sugar on his tongue - when he notices him. Standing at the bar, just a few metres away from him. The face is unfamiliar, but the ambience the man gives off he’s seen a million times before. Some rich businessman spending his vacation here in Monaco; dressed in a fancy designer suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Max doesn’t even have to come closer to know what he smells like. They’re always the same. And so is he.

He smiles and holds eye contact just a little bit longer before looking away, a smirk on his lips. He can see the man is still staring at him, sipping from his own glass. It’s working, just as it does every single time. Max sighs dramatically and reaches out to his own shirt, his pliant fingers undoing the first two buttons, then slide at the cotton collar and move it away from Max’ throat as if he was trying to let some fresh air touch his skin. Just a little bit, but he knows it’ll be enough. The man looks around, pays for his drink and stands up. Max shoots a quick smile in his direction, watches him smile back and proceed deeper into the building, closing the bathroom door behind him. 

He’s in no hurry. He finishes his drink and gets up, runs a hand through his hair and strolls towards the closed bathroom door. Anticipation is boiling in his veins. However many times he’s done this before, he still feels like he’s on top of the world every time. His fingers wrap around the doorknob, he pulls it and steps inside.

It’s still the same wide mirror, the same wooden sink and the same red, dim light filling the room. Max lets himself lean against the sink, looks at himself in the mirror; then at the man appearing from one of the bathroom stalls. He must be Spanish, Max thinks. Dark curly hair in a messy hairdo, sharp jawline and deep black eyes. And this stubble, with a hint of gray hair. He really can’t wait to feel it rasping on his skin.

“Thank you for coming,” the man says as he locks the door. Max scoffs. Italian. He’s definitely Italian. “I thought you changed your mind.”

“How could I?” Max says lazily. 

“Are you drunk?”

“No, sober,” Max assures. Good thing he asked. Max likes him even more now. The man nods meditatively, looking over Max’ body, and the Dutchman curves his lower back a little, pushing his hips backwards playfully. He likes it, Max thinks when he notices the bulge growing slowly in the man’s trousers. 

“You’re really pretty,” the man says as his palms land on Max’ hips, their bodies now touching. Max bites on his lower lip, feeling the shiver coming down his spine; a wet mouth pressing into his neck from behind, and the stubble scratching on his skin. He’s melting already, he can feel it - but he cannot help it. The feeling of a strong male body pressing into him is mindblowing; it’s his own shameful addiction, his Achilles' heel. His hands are everywhere, he’s caressing Max’ hips, his abdomen, his chest through the shirt; and his growing bulge is now pressing into Max’ ass through the trousers, Max can feel it so painfully close. That’s it, he’s gone. His mind is foggy and his throat is dry all of a sudden. He always becomes so pliant in male arms.

“What’s your name?” Max whispers and licks over his lips, “I wanna know a name to scream.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he feels rather than hears the man say against the crook of his neck. He traces kisses upwards to his ear, sucks at the earlobe slightly, making Max tilt his head in his direction, and growls, “I know who you are, though.”

Max’ breathing gets stuck in his throat. His eyes fly open as he stares at the man in the mirror. The man feels him tense and halts, too, looking back at him.

“Is that fear I can see in your eyes?” 

Max gulps. His heart is racing like crazy.

“You shouldn’t be scared,” the man’s voice suddenly softens. “I won’t tell anyone. I would never. I know what it feels like.” he leaves a tender kiss on Max’ cheek. “No one will ever find out about this, I promise. At the end of the day I have my own reputation to maintain, right? Dai, amore, relax.”

He proceeds to cover Max’ face in kisses then, his arms still wrapped around his torso. Max swallows quietly and closes his eyes, giving into the touch again. There’s always a risk. But he really doesn’t fancy running away every time someone calls him by his name. A hand slips down his trousers, fingers squeezing his swollen shaft through his underwear, and that’s when his mind finally lets it go, lets him actually enjoy this. In the end, nothing matters more than the strong arms around him.

He lets his head drop backwards, to the man’s shoulder, and a quiet moan slips through his opened lips. The man knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure. He teases Max by adding pressure to his head and stroking the shaft simultaneously while he rubs himself against his ass. The man is slim and muscular and Max finally feels like being taken care of, finally feels adored by someone. His chest heaves and his knees are already weak, and the man sucks on the thick skin of his neck, clearly aiming for a bruise and it feels good, not giving a fuck about anything feels amazing. 

“I wish we could do this all night, but we don’t have much time,” the man says after licking over the fresh red bruise he’s just left on Max’ neck. “You hear me, amore?”

Max nods and he feels like he’s floating, like this isn’t real, this is a dream, this is-

“Good,” the man growls as he clenches a fist on Max’ hair and pushes him forward roughly, bending Max over the sink and eliciting a surprised moan from him. “Can’t wait to find out what your hole feels like.”

Max bites on his lower lip but he really cannot hide the wide smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. This is what he loves, this is what makes him feel good and valid. Strong arms roaming all over his body, pulling down his jeans and his underwear. Cold fingers finding his dry hole, pressing into it. He takes a deep breath as his eyes roll, and drops his head forward, his forehead meeting the wooden surface of the sink with a quiet thud. He hears the familiar sound and feels spit coming down his butt crack, the fingers of some stranger collecting the wetness and spreading it all over Max’ hole before pushing in, one of the fingers slipping past the tight circle of muscles. Max’ mouth falls open in a silent moan, his abdomen tightening, his legs shaking. The man fucks him slowly with one finger, making sure he’s stretching him; Max finally managed to open his eyes and look in the mirror, at the reflection of his body, still fully dressed, bent over and submitted to a man he’s never seen before, a man whose name he doesn’t even know. He swallows, hot puffs of air coming from his mouth leaving damp patches on the mirror. 

It doesn’t take long for the man to prepare him, now two fingers slipping in and out of his lubed up hole easily. Max watches him as he pulls his own trousers down with his free hand, his fat cock springing free, and moans at the sight.

“Like what you’re seeing?” the man laughs and his fingers go deeper, to the very last knuckle, making Max freeze in pleasure. “You’re one hell of a sight too, trust me, Max.”

He gives himself a couple of strokes before slapping his cock on Max’ naked ass, Max’ head going dizzy at the feeling as he whimpers.

“Fuck me, for God’s sake.”

The man in the mirror smiles at him before reaching out and wrapping a hand around his throat, making him stand up from where he’s been half lying on the sink. His fingers slip out of Max; he adds pressure to Max’ throat, choking off his air, and Max lets out a shaky, weak moan in response.

“Say it again.”

“Please,” Max somehow manages to whimper even with his lungs burning and his throat aching. He gropes at the man’s hand, trying to ease off his hold on his neck, and chokes out again, “Fuck me, please, fuck me already.”

The man laughs and leaves a wet kiss on his cheek before letting him go; Max catches himself on his arms, coughing slightly as fresh air fills his lungs. He sees the man fumbling at his trousers, pulling out a condom and rolling it down his length; his body aches with anticipation, his crotch swollen and sticky and his brain only occupied with one thing - his desire to finally, blissfully feel the man inside.

He adds more lube to his hole before pressing the tip into him, going deeper and deeper slowly, watching pleasure spread all over Max’ face, his mouth falling open and his eyes squeezing shut and his fingers dig into the wooden surface of the sink. The man grabs his hand then, places his palms on the mirror; Max’ hipbones hit the sharp edge of the sink.

“You’re really beautiful, Max,” the man whispers in his ear and gives him the first, rough thrust; Max’ moan echoes from the walls of the bathroom. “Shh, you don’t want them to hear us, do you? You don’t want people to know what you’re doing in your free time. Tell me, how many other men have been in this little hole of yours?”

Max chokes out a moan that evolves into a whine when the man starts thrusting into him. His fingernails scratch on the mirror, his hips hit the sink painfully with every new sharp thrust.

“I know you have a number. Tell me,” the man insists, digging his fingers into Max’ meaty hips.

“Twenty-six,” Max cries out and it feels nice to finally say it, he feels proud of himself. The man smirks and kisses the back of his neck.

“You really are a whore,” he exhales, “Oh, I like you even more now.”

He presses a hand over Max’ mouth, another one holding his hips in place, and starts pounding into him in rapid, rough thrusts, muffling out all the sounds that pour out of Max’ mouth. Max’ body feels on the edge already, he can barely feel his legs and he’s dizzy and drunk and so weak. He lets the man use him, obeys every single thing he says and does; his mind focuses on where their bodies connect, his lungs hurt and he feels like he’s about to cry from pleasure. This is why he keeps coming here. He needs it. He needs to feel at least something.

The man growls into his ear, rasps his teeth over Max’ neck and halts, burying himself deep inside him. Max’ chest heaves, he doesn’t dare to open his eyes because he feels like he’s about to pass out. He feels the man wrap his fingers around Max’ shaft, and then he starts moving again, this time jerking Max off to the rhythm of his own thrusts.

They might have been doing this for seconds or hours - Max really has no idea - before he finally reaches his peak of pleasure, orgasm filling him like lava, he feels it in his throat and his belly. Just a few more strokes - and he’s coming all over the sink, his body goes rigid, his insides burn, and the man doesn’t stop for a second. He drives Max crazy, fucks him through his orgasm before coming himself, his cock throbbing deep inside Max, his low grunts sending shivers down Max’ spine. He doesn’t take long; he catches his breath and slips out of Max, pulls his trousers up and fixes his suit. Max watches him, wrecked, exhausted, used. Again. And damn it feels nice.


End file.
